


better wake up and apologize

by copernicusjones



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Anxiety, Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death In Dream, Dream Sex, Dreams vs. Reality, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, There's like a short section of Creamsicle cuteness but the rest is Not Happy, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23772028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copernicusjones/pseuds/copernicusjones
Summary: An assignment like this is what Freddy's always dreamed of.Until heactuallystarts to dream about it.  And about Mr. White.But dreams are unpredictable, uncontrollable—nothing Freddy should be held accountable for.  So why is he slowly being overtaken by the need to apologize for what's happening in his?
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	better wake up and apologize

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off Mr. White's line, "If you shoot me in a dream, you better wake up and apologize."
> 
> Because my angst-loving ass decided to think OooHHHH BUT WHAT IF!! >:D
> 
> This is dedicated to m_buggie, wherever you are. Thank you for being my first ResDogs friend all those years ago and introducing me to Creamsicle even if at the time I wasn't into it. Welp, things change, yeah?

It's the day of the heist. The day he's practically dreamed of, hungered for ever since receiving the assignment.  
  
He has a good feeling about this. A _great_ feeling. They've bought every word, accepted him as one of their own. This'll be a cinch.  
  
But when they pull up to the jewelers, the good is gone, spoils into something sick and _really_ fucking uncomfortable.  
  
They're the only car in the lot, in sight at all.  
  
And Freddy's the only one who notices.  
  
He looks to White, who is too busy looking back at him _to_ notice.  
  
“You got this, kid.” He's not asking.  
  
He tells White that _yeah,_ of course he fucking does, in the same swaggering sort of way White would say it, that Orange has been drawn to, trying to emulate since day damn one.  
  
And it's only after he's dropped off— _he_ , not _they—_ that Freddy registers it's at the wrong spot. That White—in his own car, not the getaway Brown is supposed to be driving—is already heading down the block, leaving Orange to fend for himself.  
  
Well, _shit_.  
  
Did he get this wrong, somehow? Nah, he's gone over it—both Freddy, and Orange have gone over it—eighty trillion times. He's not mistaken. He _can't be_. He helped lay the trap. But...  
  
_why does it feel like he's the dipshit walking into one?_  
  
The store is empty; none of the cases, even, have a single piece of jewelry in them. No customers to order around, no employees to threaten. No cops, uniformed or plainclothes. None of Joe's other men. Just Freddy.  
  
And, standing at the threshold to the back room, Holdaway.  
  
No. Not Holdaway.  
  
Because Orange doesn't know Holdaway. He could be a customer, an employee, or a janitor, or he could be some fucking addict crawling out of the gutter to panhandle—it doesn't matter. Freddy ignores him, heads towards the back.  
  
Holdaway doesn't move. Freddy's the one who stops short, and they're staring each other down.  
  
Holdaway speaks first, his voice rings loud— _really_ fucking loud—and clear in Freddy's head. _Actually inside it_.  
  
“Sorry, Newandyke, but I'm steppin' in.”  
  
Freddy doubles over, starts clawing at his ear. There's an earpiece implanted. He can't tear it out. “The _fuck_?!”  
  
“You're wired.”  
  
_He is_? Since when? That wasn't part of the plan; it was too risky, they concluded. And he doesn't remember...  
  
“How am I—?” He keeps ripping at the wire, to no avail. “'What the hell, man?”  
  
“Don't get your balls in a knot. You just keep doin' your job like you're supposed to, _Mr. Orange_.” It's almost a sneer, and only in Freddy's head again.  
  
Finally able to lift his head, he sees it, grayed through his sunglasses and blurry from the panic spiking through him: Holdaway's lips aren't moving. _He's_ not moving. Freddy gapes for several more seconds to be sure he's _blinking_ , breathing at all.  
  
“We got Cabot already,” Holdaway continues, like this is what they discussed. Like Freddy isn't about to have a full-scale meltdown right in front of him. “At the warehouse rendezvous. Now we're just waitin' for one-a his lackeys to come waltzing in with the stones. That's where _you_ come in.”  
  
This isn't how it was supposed to go. _This isn't what they agreed upon_. _This isn't the fucking plan_!  
  
What this _is_ is a huge middle finger, a _fuck you_ for Freddy daring to show he was not even scared but _concerned_ , like anyone who wasn't a complete nutjob would've been in his shoes.  
  
He stands, reining in his fear long enough to ask, with all the resolve he can bullshit, “What do you need me to do?”  
  
“You're gonna come with me—caught you in the act, Mr. Orange.” He _sounds_ like Holdaway—the authority and finality in his tone, but he might as well be a mannequin, how he's standing there.  
  
It's infuriating.  
  
“No, Jim, what do you _need me to fucking do_? You decided I fucked it up before you even gave me the chance?! Just... what the fuck, _how long—_!” He can't even get it out, starts pacing aimlessly as the unfinished questions cycle round and round. How long have they been planning to screw him over like this? How long ago was it decided he was an unreliable fuck-up?

Holdaway's disembodied voice invades Freddy's frantic thoughts. "Newandyke, listen—" 

And is all it takes to set him off again.  
  
“I mean, what, I'm just supposed to _go along_ with this? Get kicked to the fuckin' curb and still nod along and be your fucking puppet? No, you know what, just... I know where White's parking, let me take you to him. Let me—”  
  
“This ain't some fuckin' Let's Make a Deal shit. There's officers tailing your buddy Mr. White right now, too—probably got his ass in cuffs by now.” He pauses, presumably expecting another outburst. “Look, just take the stones already.”  
  
Freddy is about to ask _What stones?_ when he looks down at the floor, the space between them. The suitcase—Freddy knows somehow that it's stuffed with diamonds—is there, where it wasn't before. He doesn't take it.  
  
“You wanna make it out of here or not?" Holdaway asks. "Grab the suitcase.”  
  
“Whadd'you mean, 'do I want to make it out'? Like, what, I wasn't gonna? You know what, fine, alright, yeah, I'll take your fucking diamonds.” Freddy snatches the suitcase up. It's not as heavy as he expected, but still feels like a deadweight. “There.”  
  
“Quit givin' me lip. Sittin' here runnin' your mouth like I ain't backed you up this whole fucking time. You know damn well I never wanted it to be like this. I've _always_ been on your side, man. But you know how it is at the department—"  
  
"I don't. Fuckin' enlighten me."  
  
"You _know_ , Freddy. Cats like me, _like you_. Gotta work ten times as hard to prove ourselves. And even if we do, they'll work eleven times harder to fuck us over. That's why I'm here, to keep you from getting fucked over. It's exactly like I told you; the only reason anyone would be steppin' in is if it—”

“Got out of control,” Freddy finishes, tight with barely suppressed hostility.

Then Holdaway produces a pair of cuffs from his ratty camo jacket, closes in on Freddy. That he's moved at all is so shocking, Freddy's reaction is delayed.  
  
“What the _fuck_?!” Freddy struggles against Holdaway, elbows him in the gut. He shoves away, sunglasses sliding off and crunching under his shoes as he trips backwards. The suitcase cushions his fall, rams into his hip.  
  
“Enough of this shit,” snaps Holdaway. He reaches, cuffs open.  
  
With a clumsy swat at Holdaway, Freddy staggers to his feet. They're outside now, an empty sidewalk and vacant storefronts. The suitcase is safely guarded behind Freddy's legs, and, fucking fine, if they're gonna treat him like a criminal, then he'll keep playing the role.  
  
He whips his gun out, aims it at Holdaway. “No one's fuckin' pulling me out of this!”   
  
The handcuffs Holdaway had are now a gun that he's pointing back. He's threatened. Good. 'Bout fucking time someone takes Freddy seriously.  
  
“Freddy, don't do this.”

It reverberates in Freddy's head, over and over and over again, a chant. Like he's, what, some random lunatic, who needs to be talked down from jumping, or out of a hostage situation? He's a cop, a _good cop_ ; why don't they see that! Why do they only see expendable bait...?  
  
Because _he's the one out of control._ Not the assignment, but Freddy himself. Out of their control. They don't trust him, but not because he's proven himself untrustworthy. He doesn't fit their mold, and that's beyond anyone's control, even Freddy's own. So now he's a liability, an easy scapegoat. 

It's what Holdaway said. Officers _like him._ Like Holdaway, well, that was more obvious to the naked eye, but Freddy? He could cover his tracks, could go through the motions and say all the right things, sure, but these fuckers weren't detectives for nothing. For however much Freddy might've tried to throw them off the scent, _someone_ must've heard something... _saw_ something. Even just thought something.

Then said something.  
  
“I was hung out to dry...!” He means to ask it, but he doesn't have to—he knows. _Knows._

Goddammit! He is dependable and driven, if not a bit reckless and sympathetic at times, but _fuckin' A_ , he is a _good cop_ and a good person. He is not the _bad guy here!_  
  
Holdaway doesn't deny it. His gun remains trained on Freddy—on Mr. Orange, like this is still a standoff between them, which, hey, it is because Freddy hasn't lowered his gun, either. His words fill Freddy's mind. “That's why I told 'em I'd take over. Get Cabot at the warehouse, come get you here to carry the diamonds. Sorry you don't get to be the hero, Newandyke, but at least you're comin' out of this alive. Get it?”

“Yeah, I get it!” Like he hasn't just proven he's unfit for this, ranting to himself and waving his gun around in front of a fucking expressionless mime version of his superior.  
  
And for the first time, Holdaway's voice isn't just in Freddy's head. It's aloud, firm and absolute. “Then drop your fucking gun, and come along quietly. Mr. Orange.”  
  
The seconds stretch out. Slowly, steadily.  
  
Then it spins _out of control_.  
  
A deafening _pop_!

Holdaway's pistol ripped from his hand. Blood spraying, showering Freddy.  
  
A noise raw and inhuman torn from his throat. Then another gunshot, from his own gun. That he's firing.  
  
He's moving towards them, rage blurring his ability to _see_ who they are. Their form is speckled red from the blood in Freddy's vision. They stumble, fall to one knee on the pavement, but fire off a second shot at Holdaway. It goes wide.  
  
Freddy's doesn't. He stands over White, shoots him square in the shoulder. Again. Inches below his first wound.

Rule number goddamn one: he's not supposed to break character for anything. Even if other officers get shot at, he's _supposed_ to keep up the ruse.  
  
But it wasn't a _cop_ who was hit, it was Jim. And what ruse? Now that it's been stolen away, that it's all over, _what fucking ruse?_  
  
White's glasses have fallen off, and he slumps, collapses onto his back with a great anguished moan. Freddy sees the confusion, chased by fear. Mr. White, reliable and resourceful, someone Mr. Orange had grown to trust, is just Lawrence Dimmick. Another fucking useless serial offender who thought he could keep outrunning the law.  
  
“What the fuck's gotten into you, kid?” His question wobbles. His jaw, always set like stone, quivers as he painstakingly drags himself back with his elbows. And the realization burrows in.

Sick satisfaction cuts through Freddy's anger, twists a grim smirk out of him. He prays that this terror dawning on White is even a sliver of what Dolenz felt.

And _now_ the back-up is arriving. For Holdaway, not him; he is certain of this. Sirens blare in the distance. They're staticky to his ears, underscored by Holdaway's garbled string of cussing from the earpiece. _Everything else_ in the whole fucking world is lost to Freddy, fractured and brittle and buried under the blistering-hot fury stirring within that's sharpening his focus, filling him with the clarity to know what to do next.  
  
Atone.

He stares down at White. At the dark stain blossoming on his right shoulder. At the shaky arm raising a gun.  
  
Freddy fires one more time. Makes White's left shoulder match his right. Keeps his gun locked where it is, ready for another shot.  
  
“You _fucking rat,_ ” White growls. Pulls the trigger. _Click_. _Clickclickclick._ It's empty.  
  
So is the light in White's eyes.  
  
“Fucking _pig_ ,” Freddy corrects him, even as the gun clatters out of White's slackening grip.  
  
Freddy should kick it away, out of White's reach. Even as he's fading fast, even though it's empty—it's what protocol dictates. For _fucking pigs_ like him.  
  
But the gunshot— _White's_ gunshot, that blew through Holdaway's wrist, knocked his pistol away—still echoes in Freddy's mind. So does Holdaway's roar of pain. So does his own helpless cry.  
  
He _is not_ going to fuck this up. More. He's not going to fuck this up _more_. And, well, if him trying his goddamn best is fucking it up, then what the hell, he'll give a-hundred-and-motherfucking-ten percent.  
  
He aims slightly lower, centered. Mentally screams for White to meet his gaze so Freddy's glare (it's fucking stone cold and he won't let anyone tell him otherwise) is the last thing he sees.  
  
Doesn't fire. _Can't_. His brothers are swarming over, guns drawn and arresting handcuffs out.   
  
Pushed back, Freddy lowers his gun. Watches with dazed disbelief as White's limp body—his corpse—is hauled upright and put into cuffs. He wasn't—can't be—mortally wounded, yet, he's dead. Freddy _knows_ , saw the moment he slipped away. White's dead, and Orange—the rat, the pig, _Freddy—_ killed him.  
  
But Freddy's the only one who knows it. Knows it, and feels it, his heart racing quicker than the Flash and his pulse thundering in his ears. Breath erratic, shuddering like he just came.  
  
Freddy wakes up. The gunshots are still ringing, rattling around his skull. His hands clench, twist the sheets, making sure they're _sheets_ and not the gun, not _the gun_.  
  
He tries to grasp for the rest of the dream, but it's more slippery than Joe fucking Cabot. Breaks apart, dissolves. Bits and pieces fall like Tetris blocks, most stacking up misshapen along the edges but a few slot together: getting stabbed in the back. _Why_. And the gunshot.  
  
Gun _shots_. Because _he_ fired his gun too. Shot White dead. Or not really, but he died anyway.  
  
And Freddy, he's never even fired his weapon in the line of duty.  
  
He hopes, if it comes down to it, he can be the Freddy from his dream. Do what he has to, _when_ he has to, no matter what kind of shit gets thrown at him.  
  
But what the fuck's saying he _isn't_ already? He was born for this job, for this role. It was just a dream, a _dream—_ no one has a clue. Not Holdaway, not _anyone_. If he can be on the force for over five years and trick everyone this long, two weeks with Cabot's crew as Mr. Orange will be a breeze.  
  
He lays there, thinking in one constant, tight loop. Stares blankly towards his window, where dawn's creeping light illuminates a gazillion dust motes. He imagines it as if it's what's left of his dream, floating around aimlessly in tiny particles, like an Etch-a-Sketch that's been shook up.  
  
For all he can't recall, every one of his senses has their own memory. He can still hear it, see it. Taste the righteous anger, feel the kickback vibrating through his arm. But more than anything it's the _confidence_ that's sticking, keeping him wide awake. Not to suck his own dick, but dream-Freddy was pretty badass, unrepentant in taking down White to protect a fellow officer, a _friend_.  
  
And Freddy's gained an assurance—not that he ever lost it, but it's been renewed—that if he has to shoot any of those other assholes, he'll do it in a heartbeat.  
  
He doesn't need to sleep to dream. Settling back into bed, he closes his eyes, lets the scraps he can still pluck up wash over him, with hopes to maneuver them to a desired end. A daydream, technically. (“Kid's got his fuckin' head in the clouds, can't tell where fiction, his goddamn superheroes end, and reality begins”— Holdaway wasn't the first to point it out, and he won't be the last.)  
  
When dream-Freddy reappears, he's just _standing_ there, watching as White's dragged away, being read rights he'll never hear. Gun still clutched, the tension rippling just under the surface slowly eroding away and being replaced with the irrevocable knowledge that what he's done _is_ the right thing.  
  
The man that Freddy's just killed isn't a man at all, but a criminal. Yeah, there's ones who'll turn over a new leaf, but White's got a rap sheet longer than Wonder Woman's lasso. Seemingly infinite, and something he likely brandishes just as proudly.  
  
He's nothing more than a fucking cop-killer. Who would've never reformed. Who would've killed Officer Freddy Newandyke instantly, regardless of the friendship blooming between himself and Mr. Orange. Then would've moved to the next city, the next job, without the slightest trace of remorse.  
  
And so Freddy doesn't feel any remorse either. Either in his dream for what he's done, or in his waking thoughts, for what he _will_ do wholly fucking conscious.  
  
He's not gonna apologize to anyone, especially not these bastards, for _doing his job._ He's the good guy, the hero. He's a cop.  
  
And he's never been less sorry in his entire life.

* * *

It's the days, the week, after the first dream; the week, the days, before the heist.  
  
The dreams continue, and they're the same.  
  
Freddy shooting White. Sometimes for a valid reason, other times less justified, but _always_ ending with Freddy feeling absolute fucking _conviction_ that he's doing the city, and society as a whole, a service. That all the bad guys are taken care of, permanently, while Freddy prevails as the hero.  
  
Except, one night, it's different.  
  
The dreams get worse.

Or... shit, okay that's not right. He's Mr. Orange—walking talking breathing, and now _dreaming_ the part. The dreams get better. _Way better_.  
  
Instead of the day of heist, it's the night before. Instead of the jewelry store, the parking lot, the warehouse—it's White's motel room.  
  
Instead of polished and professional in their suits and shades, they're sweaty and delirious, either fucking or about to or just having finished. Orange is always grinning like a fucking loon by the end of it; White teases him about it, how he won't quit smiling, even with a dick in his mouth.  
  
What he doesn't, can't, tell White is that it's not the sex that has him so euphoric—well, okay, it is. But. _God_ , this guy is something else. He's witty, smart, articulate and absolutely _magnetic_. Freddy wonders how easy and natural it would've been for White to tell the commode story and it's _hilarious_ to think of him in the same predicament—he almost wakes White from laughing, in one particular dream.  
  
And White's self-assured where Orange isn't. Gives Orange direction that's also encouragement, that Freddy also takes to heart, because it's so fucking _nice_ hearing someone believe in him for once, even if it's not _really_ him. White cares about what happens to Orange—about _them_ getting through this—more than anyone's given a fuck about Freddy Newandyke, the cop.  
  
But Freddy-Newandyke-the-cop is still there, fighting his way out of Mr. Orange to prove himself.  
  
And so these dreams that are so _awesomely_ different... they end the same.  
  
He shoots Lar—  
  
White.  
  
He shoots White.  
  
It's always after they've fucked, while White's snoozing away like a bear in hibernation beside him. Sometimes it's the dead of night, other times the cusp of morning, but at some point, unable to sleep, Freddy becomes keenly aware that his cover's been blown. That Cabot's on his way to the motel, or that White will wake up and take care of business himself.  
  
So it's Freddy who makes the first, and last, move.  
  
There's never a confrontation, not like outside the store or by the warehouse. No showdown, no words exchanged. No _big reveal_.  
  
Just Freddy, finding his standard-issue Glock under the pillow or between the mattress. It's never there to begin with, and he doesn't remember bringing it along. It simply materializes out of thin air if he so much as gives it a passing thought.  
  
There's never hesitation, and this time, he _means_ to do it. Not out of self-defense or protecting Jim or anyone else. No, he _has_ to stop White; stop _himself_ from spiraling further out of control and in turn, put a bloody red bow on what the PD might see as restitution, or, hell, might not even give a shit about at all. But at least Freddy can say he's done (what the PD's interpretation of the law says is) the right thing. His fucking job.  
  
As for Orange, well—he'd hightail it out of there, find somewhere to lay low and formulate some Professor X-level of complicated, involved revenge plot as he mourned White. But Orange is gone, forever, and Freddy never runs. Never leaves. He stands and stares at the mess he's made, congratulating himself. Giving himself the figurative pats on the back that White used to literally give Orange, waiting for back-up to arrive, to take White away. To make sure that Freddy's not injured, and to inform him he's led them close enough to Cabot that they've got the prick, are sweating him down.  
  
But that never happens. Freddy always wakes up before it does.  
  
And so, Freddy wakes up. Simultaneously hot and cold, head throbbing and the faint hint of smoke stinging the air he tries to gulp down.  
  
Fucking _God_ , it was just a dream. Just another hellish, emotionally crippling dream.  
  
Except...  
  
He silently slips out of bed, trying to find his clothes and keeping one eye on White, who's dead to the world like anyone should be at the asscrack of dawn.

It's not a dream anymore. It's never been more real.

His boxers are crammed into his jeans and kicked halfway under the bed, and his shirt's over by the room's cheap desk, where it must've flown to when he winged it off last night. On the chair nearby, his jacket is haphazardly folded over the back.  
  
As soon as he's got the jacket on, Freddy checks the pocket. Still there, the tiny pistol he's kept stashed away. Just in case.  
  
His fingers itch for it, like a junkie who needs a hit, and he has to remind himself that in reality he's never done this before. He _hasn't_ actually fired it, night after night after fucking night, to the point that it's muscle memory.  
  
Freddy inches to the door, cracks it to peek outside. Lot's empty, streets empty too. The PD can't follow him everywhere, and he's long experienced at sneaking around, disappearing for a couple hours or even a night or two, without anyone at the precinct having any idea what he's up to. Still, old habits die hard, and the paranoia is something that he won't shake, nor does he think Mr. Orange would shake his, after all that shit that went down in the men's room.  
  
“Where're you runnin' off to?” calls White from the bed. Freddy nearly jumps out of his skin, whirls to slam the door shut. White chuckles at the reaction, motions for Orange to come back over to him.  
  
Freddy does. “Wasn't goin' anywhere.” _Without you_ , he wants to add, but Orange squashes it, reminds him it's just a little too faggy to be saying out loud. “Just gonna go out for a smoke, grab a soda or something. I dunno, I shouldn't hang around, right? Got shit to do today.”  
  
“ _We_ got shit to do,” White says. “Thought you wanted to check out the storefront sometime. Let's go later this morning.”  
  
“Sure, but what the fuck am I supposed to do 'til then, stay cooped up with you?”  
  
White is awake now, squints at Orange like he's considering what's the best way to loosen all that sass from Orange's mouth. Freddy's sure he has more than a few ideas, all of them ones Orange would like.  
  
“Oh, is that so bad?” White sounds smooth and solid like steel, but there's this way his eyes crinkle at the edges, that Orange has started to notice. He's still dangerous, lethal, but not enough that Orange can't keep himself from probing for the softer, more vulnerable spots. He's found some. “Alright, yeah yeah, go get your fuckin' fresh air. What d'you need, two hours? Three?”  
  
“Nah, I won't be gone that long. I can go grab us some breakfast from that joint at the end of the street, that you said had the huge fucking pancakes? I'm starving here—kinda worn out, you know?” White _does_ know, returns a smile that's accompanied by an eye roll. “I can return the tape, too, while I'm at it.” Freddy picks up the shell for _Superman,_ that's sitting on the nightstand. He rented it from the video store that's diagonal to the diner; he wasn't about to bring over his copy, even admit to owning one. “And I can pick up the sequel. We could watch it tonight if you want.”  
  
“Yeah? And what's to make me think you're gonna sit through the whole thing this time, huh?” White gives him a challenging look. While Lex Luthor had been exposing Superman to Kryptonite, Orange had made a comment about Eve Teschmacher—how he couldn't believe any guy could watch this without jerking off to that fucking excuse of an outfit she was wearing, with her tits about to spill out.  
  
White had said something—Freddy can't remember it clearly, basically to the effect of “doin' something about it” and they were on each other, even more heated and intense than Freddy's dreams. White's a fucking master with his hands and the fact that Freddy knew Orange was not only shamelessly willing to cheat on his wife, but to do so by getting dicked down by a—well, a co-worker... that made it even more mind-blowingly amazing.  
  
It was everything Orange expected, White taunting and teasing him, toeing the line between dirty and just the God's-honest truth, and everything Freddy never knew he wanted—that he knows he'll never have again when this is over.  
  
“Hey, you were the one gettin' distracted! I was paying _very close attention—_ ”  
  
“To Eve What's-her-Rack, yeah. Like you haven't watched this fucking thing a hundred times already, to be payin' it any attention.”  
  
“What? No, I mean, I've _seen_ it, sure, but not _that_ many times.” Freddy's seen it more times than he can count. “C'mon, everyone's seen _Superman—”  
  
_“Then why'd you fuckin' bring over a movie if you, me, and every man, woman and child in greater L.A. has seen it already? Couldn't pick something off the beaten path, introduce an old dog to something new...?” _  
  
_“'Okay, fine I played it safe. Everyone likes it, 'cause nobody _doesn't_ like Superman—well, nobody real, if we're talkin' about in _his_ universe, then—”  
  
“His universe? What d'you know about that, ' _his_ universe'? You ever even read the comics, kid? They're yards better than this cooked-up Hollywood shit.”  
  
Freddy tries not to stare, but he can't help his eyes going wide. Is insanely aware of his heart beating, hard and fast and about to bust out of chest. _Be cool_ , he screams at himself. _Be super-fucking-cool_. “Tch... yeah! 'Course I've read a couple, who hasn't?”  
  
“No kiddin', though, I've been reading them longer than you've been breathing. Not that I'm one of those fuckin' pimple-necked dweebs who could build a goddamn pyramid out of their collection, but I'll catch up on what ol' Clark's doin' every now and then. See what him and Lois are up to.” White has this real fond expression when he says, “You know what, the first thing I ever stole was a _Superman_ comic. When I was ten.”  
  
“Me too,” Freddy says before Orange can stop him. And this time it _is_ Freddy speaking. His very short hypothetical rap sheet, that would be littered with little more than speeding tickets or simple possession, would also include his first and only petty theft. Lifting a _Superman_ comic when he was eight.  
  
He'd felt so guilty that he'd snuck it back into the store a week later, unread, turned around and paid for it with allowance money.  
  
White just laughs, mutters something under his breath that sounds like “ _unbelievable_ ,” to which Freddy internally agrees with, emphatically.  
  
If things were different, they could _talk_ about the issues they respectively stole—about the situations surrounding it, before and after and—  
  
_But things aren't different_. Freddy can picture a little Holdaway on his shoulder, his conscience, flicking him in the ear and telling him to can it. These lowlifes don't deserve any schmaltzy _what-ifs_ thrown their way, especially not from Freddy.  
  
“So, what, then?” Freddy asks. “ _Superman Two_?”  
  
“If that's what you want,” White says, still on the brink of laughter. “Then yeah, knock yourself out.”  
  
“I dunno why we're even talkin' about what movie we watched, or are gonna watch, or what-the-fuck-ever when we both know no matter what I choose it's gonna end with you blowing me.” Freddy makes a pumping gesture with his hand, then drops it in a flat slicing motion, like a clapboard. “And cut! Roll credits!”  
  
White's quick to his feet, and Freddy's just as quick to back away, a graceless swerve because he's too overcome with laughter.  
  
“Get back here, you little shit.” White reaches for him again.  
  
But Freddy can't stop laughing, and he can't effectively dodge when White swipes at him once more. The tape goes flying, landing several feet away. The moment's distraction is all White needs, steadying Freddy by gripping his grinning face at the chin, squeezing with a rough, warm hand.  
  
“You got a real ugly laugh, you know that? Sound like a fucking goat that's been tokin' up.”  
  
Freddy tries—but not really—to worm his way out of White's hold. His grin closes but his cheeks are still rounded in a smile. His shoulders shake as he tries to contain the laughter that escapes in little snorts through his nose.  
  
White brings Freddy's mouth closer, only a couple inches of space between them. “You're lucky the rest of you isn't.”

How White's looking at him, _smiling_ approvingly, it's like the goddamn Bat Signal—could summon Orange from miles away, it's so lit up. Makes Orange feel like he's doing pretty alright, calms his jangly nerves about his first _real_ job.  
  
But Freddy likes it too, feels wanted and _appreciated_ in ways he never has before, professionally or otherwise. This is _fake_ , he reminds himself, even as he lets White put his big dumb _strong_ hands on him. But he's just doing what Holdaway instructed—acting naturally. Following the script's outline (“Get to _know_ these motherfuckers, Freddy.”) and putting a personal touch on it, making it his own.

It's funny, a little—this is the _least_ fake he's been in a long fucking time, and he's going to enjoy it while he can. And for however happy screwing around with White makes him, Freddy knows, _knows,_ he'll be doubly happy once the job is over and this son of a bitch is behind bars. And prouder than he'd be versus just putting a bullet in the guy's head, like in all his fucked-up dreams.  
  
He knows this wholeheartedly, and that's why he doesn't take the chance, doesn't follow the path presented in his dreams.  
  
And anyways, he can't. Not now that his jacket is pushed off his shoulders, slides down his arms.  
  
Falls to the floor, the soft clunk of the gun in the pocket masked by the springs of the bed as Freddy is tugged down onto it.

* * *

It's the night before the heist and it's the same.  
  
Freddy shoots White. Like he always does. Doesn't blink at the blood and the brains spattering the bed, the wall, the nightstand, him.

But different.

“I'm sorry.”

It comes out strangled, like he's just learning the phrase, and he doesn't know who he's saying it to—Larry? Holdaway? Himself? God?

Or if he, Freddy, even means it. But it feels right on his tongue, something Orange would say to White, because he's a good kid—clever and capable and eager, the kind of partner White's hoping he can ( _hoped_ he _could_ ) work more jobs with.  
  
A much better criminal than Freddy is a cop. A better fucking person too.

The job's already botched. Both of them. Joe's onto him, which meant Larry would've been, before long. And the PD isn't gonna come charging in to save his ass. He's gone native, according to them—there's no bargaining, no redemption. No escape, except...

The gun is heavy in his hand. Unwieldy and clunky, the barrel still hot, the sizzling smell choking him as he turns it around, lifts it closer. Yeah, he's a fucking coward, so he can go out like one too.  
  
It's not enough, for any of them. But at this point, it's the only penance he can offer.  
  
Freddy wakes up gagging, tears streaming down his face. And even after he pukes up every last Corn Pop he had for dinner, the oily, acrid taste of guilt lingers.

* * *

It's the day of the heist, and it's not a dream.  
  
It's a nightmare.  
  
Freddy doesn't shoot White—he should've, after Brown crashed the car. Plugged White in the back as his fellow officers came speeding up. Saved _their lives_. Not White's.

Should've but he _didn't_ because he _couldn't shoot Larry_.  
  
He can, he discovers, shoot Mr. Blonde. And he does. Repeatedly. Kills him.

But there's no rabbit-pulse in his chest afterwards, no kick of adrenaline rushing through him. He's too almost-dead for that. The only thing aligning with his dreams is his vision glazed red, but this time it's his own blood, that he's been laying in a pool of for the last couple hours.  
  
There's no Holdaway to save him or back him up. Only Marvin Nash, who dies for no fucking reason other than being a cop.

For all his attempts to _not fuck this up_ , it's gone completely off the fucking rails. And it's got fuck-all to do with Blonde's massacre of civilians, or shooting that innocent mother they carjacked. He fucked it all up when he let Larry push him back against the wall in that alleyway behind the bar, let the half-smoked cigarette fall from his lips so he could replace it with Larry's mouth. Let himself believe he was going above and beyond, and doing this as part of the deception. 

They never suspected a thing. Until they _thought_ they did.  
  
And Larry, hunched over and sobbing and almost as fucking bloody as Freddy, _still_ doesn't suspect a thing. And he _will die_ not suspecting a thing.  
  
It was all cut and dry. Freddy, good. White, Lawrence Dimmick, _Larry_ , who-the-fuck-ever he is, bad. Catch the bad guy, help the good guys win.

Yeah, all four of them fucked up—Orange and White, thinking with their dick instead of their brain.   
  
But Freddy and Larry are to blame. It wasn't the fucking that got in the way of the job, but all the sentimental horseshit before and during and after, smiles and banter and furtive glances revealing far more than any personal information they were forbidden to share.

That Freddy can't bring himself to regret.

He hears sirens, distant. They'll be here any second. Will (try, probably fail to) save Freddy, but Larry? He's nothing, now that Cabot's dead. A cop-killing thief who'll bleed out, a footnote to the tale of Cabot's demise. One more scummy criminal off the streets.  
  
He hears Larry's breath, close. His whispery little joke—partly to comfort Orange but mostly to keep on denying the reality presented as sharp and brilliant as those fucking diamonds.

Freddy's not going to wake up. He doesn't even know if he'll open his eyes again once he closes them.   
  
The slew of dreams flash through his mind, sort of a shitty thing to dwell on, during what could be the last flickering moments of his life.

In them, he—the LAPD—always came out on top. He'd fuck it up, sure, but he'd atone for it, whatever that required. So that's... that's what he should spend his final minutes doing.  
  
Atoning for all his mistakes, for _massively fucking everything up._  
  
But cradled in Larry's blood-coated lap—  
  
“Larry... I'm a cop.”  
  
—he decides it's absolution that he wants a little more.

“Larry, I'm... so... sorry. I'm a cop.”  
  
Larry's hand on his face, his cheek. Stroking, intimate, no different than that morning in the motel last week.

“I'm so... sorry. Larry.”  
  
Except for all the blood, and the harsh contrast of a cold metal barrel jammed up to his jaw. Freddy repeats himself. Babbles with all that's left in him as the unit plows in, screaming orders Freddy can't make out over the bellowing despair spilling from Larry.  
  
He clings to Larry, clings to a pathetic hope that Larry believes him. Hope that he— _they—_ might die knowing underneath all the deceit, in spite of everything that wasn't and couldn't be and _wanted to_ be said, right now Freddy's telling him the truth.  
  
That he's a cop and  
  
that he's never been more sorry in his ent

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written these idiots before, despite having a deep and unabiding love for ResDogs that has spanned the last 15 years. I love Freddy (and Creamsicle) sm and writing him/sharing it terrifies me! But this idea wouldn't let go. I've had some fcked up dreams recently (not in the same vein as Freddy's, but still...) and for whatever reason decided to work thru them by writing this?
> 
> Thanks to Holly, Sydney, Jazzy, Johnny and my wonderful wife for listening to me FOR WEEKS while I frothed at the mouth about ResDogs and about my love for Freddy. You guys are awesome. (also i'm embarrassed that it takes 5 people for me to properly and almost-fully gush about this, lmao jfc.)
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated! Thank you very much for reading!


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